One More Hour.
Megumi x GN Reader.
Synopsis: After nearly a whole day of spending time in your boyfriend’s dorm, he still wants more. Can you really deny him that wish, especially after he has bribed you with more chocolate and plushies, along with cuddling his dogs?
Word Count: 1k.
Ten Songs Like This Piece:
we fell in love in october by girl in red
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I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys
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As It Was by Harry Styles
Mayonaka no Door / Stay With Me by Miki Matsubara
Hey Lover! by Wabie
Electric Love by BØRNS
*~*~*~*
No matter how much time passes, Megumi's dorm room remains unchanged in appearance and function.
The door glides open effortlessly unless Megumi has locked it for the night or day.
The rear wall of his room boasts fully stocked bookshelves, primarily filled with history books and nonfiction literature. This tends to annoy you, as reading any of them inevitably leads to immediate boredom-induced sleep. Once, you suggested that Megumi should embrace more imaginative reads, prompting him to respond with a half-serious glare that may have been annoyance or simply playful teasing, a common occurrence when the two of you are alone.
Megumi sleeps on a single futon, always left in a disheveled state, which is rather peculiar considering his typically organized nature. Even you occasionally make your bed, unless you're too tired in the mornings. However, Megumi consistently leaves his futon untidy, with stacks of nonfiction books near his pillow, as is his custom.
You always ponder silently, wondering if he keeps such boring books near his bedside so he can fall asleep faster, a mischievous smile forming within.
In the far corner of his dorm room sits his desk, always facing away from you. On it, you'll find Megumi's trusty laptop, open notebooks filled with scattered ideas, a collection of books, a handful of succulents and bonsai seedlings, and if you're fortunate, his Nintendo Switch. It's likely occupied by the perpetual loading screen of Animal Crossing: New Horizons, Omori, or Fire Emblem: Three Houses. Although he claims to play these games solely to appease your persistent recommendations, deep down you suspect he genuinely enjoys them. Of course, if you were to ever voice this suspicion, he wouldn't hesitate to sell his beloved Nintendo Switch on some online auction platform right before your eyes, subjecting you to a rather cruel spectacle.
However, he would undoubtedly retract his decision at the last possible moment. Megumi may possess various traits, but intentionally causing you emotional pain out of spite is certainly not one of them.
“‘Gumi, what’s your favorite type of chocolate?”
At your question, Megumi stares at you like you have grown a second face like Tomie Kawakami. Surely to him, you’re also just as pretty right, minus the second face thing? You’ll have to put it on your list of impulsive things to ask him, physically writing it down or otherwise.
In your hands is the heart-shaped box he had just given to you as a supposed reward for not having talked his ears off. Along with not having thrown his gift, a container of some homemade strawberry cake that you made from a boxed mix, that you would never admit, at him when he inevitably made some teasing quip. You aren’t known for being exactly willing to let insults from fellow peas in your pod pass without them hammering back. It is just what you do.
He may avoid the question, but at least he will still be chained down to sitting with you on the floor if you keep on pouting with every action he takes.
As always, acting like he is being held hostage in his own dorm room, he shuffles from side to side instead of responding. He’s faking being nervous again. Even if you wanted to, you could never actually hurt Megumi.
He looks at the floor, feigning confusion and fear.
You sigh.
There is a slight smirk that appears on his face as you do so.
He can be such a dick sometimes, intentionally or not, although him being the former is quite rare, he only does it with you. The duality of such a foreign species of a man called Megumi Fushiguro, you guess.
“Cherry, of course.” Of course. “I just love it. You should know that. Bec-”
Immediately, your hand slaps over his mouth like its life depends on it.
“Don’t you dare, everyone knows I hate cherry-flavored things!”
Like he was drowning, Megumi acts out a struggle and as soon as your hand is off, he takes in deep breaths, inhaling in and out quickly like you had single-handedly made him see the heavens itself. He is strange. But so are you.
So, against your better judgment, you throw your copy of Crime and Punishment, all 700 pages of it, at him, hitting his forehead with a loud slamming sound erupting from the attack.
“Ow!” Megumi exclaims, rubbing the sore spot with his hands. Maybe your actions were over the top? Yet, then again, so was his.
You cross your arms. “Deserved.”
“I can take away that rabbit plush I gave you last week.”
“You wouldn’t dare, Fushiguro.”
“I would. You’re lucky, though. I don’t usually tease anyone aside from you.”
That’s true. Megumi is stoic in all matters, from cooking to reading. That is, aside from matters where a closed door and you are involved. It is like he becomes an entirely different person, you heavily, heavily doubt Yuji would believe you if you told him.
Even on dates, he is never this expressive. If anything, he is a well-meaning but cold Prince Charming whenever the general public has eyes on him. If only that were true.
“But really, what is your favorite type of chocolate?”
His smirk disappears, replaced with a thoughtful expression.
“Hmm.” Perhaps the all-powerful concussion made him go back to normal? That would make sense. “Coffee, maybe.”
“Huh? Why, to still satisfy your caffeine addiction?”
“Goes well with ginger.”
“What?”
It is a hard-to-stomach image that appears in your head; Megumi eating Shogayaki for breakfast with black coffee along with coffee-flavored chocolates on the side. It makes you sick just thinking about it. If that vision ever became an unfortunate reality, you could imagine yourself looking at the scene in pure horror.
He isn’t teasing you if his expression tells you anything.
He’s serious.
“They aren’t that sweet either.” He really is serious. “You know I don’t like sweet side dishes. Ginger and coffee are a good combination.”
He really is fucking serious.
“Get out, Megumi.”
“...This is my-”
“Argh! Don’t care! Get out!”
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Transcript:
Who hell do you think you are? You’re any kind of artist? Anybody knows who you are?
Maybe everybody else wants to enjoy the peace and quiet. This is one of the most important places in North America, and who are you? Who are you? You miserable, presumptuous, no talent- you’re no artist. An artist respects the silence. It serves the foundation of creativity.
You obviously don’t have the talent. You don’t have enough respect for yourself or other people to know what it means to respect yourself, in music or any form of creativity, and I’m an NYU film school graduate. Sucker. And the school of visual arts in the academy of art university in San Francisco.
You suck. You’re a no talent. If you really have talent go practice and then get yourself a gig instead of ruining the day for everybody down here. You disgrace. You are everything that’s gone wrong in this world. You’re a self consumed, no talent, mediocre piece of shit. And I’ve earned my right to say it, okay? In 1975, I walked Bob Dylan up on stage. Who the fuck are you? I knew the Grateful Dead from 1966.
Who the fuck are you?
You’re nothing. You are nothing. And you will never be anything. Never. How dare you? You miserable mediocre nothing. Shame on you. You crack a stupid little smile, you little pimp. Go learn to play. You’re flat. You can’t even carry a fucking note. I don’t care about your little horn lip, it doesn’t mean you know how to play. You’re flat. I’ve trained classically, I’ve trained contemporaneously, and
you suck.
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